Tea Trays and Flowers
by JamesLuver
Summary: S01E04. "It's at that point that he realises the whole undeniable truth, the force of it hitting him like a train at full speed, as though it's a magic trick that has been saved until last for the grand finale: he, John Bates, is in love."


**A/N: **Just pure fluff because I am a weak person who couldn't resist, but I have no shame.

I always perceive this S01E04 as the episode that makes it clear that Bates loves Anna because of his lovely gesture with the tray. So yeah, here this is. There's also the tiniest hint of Gwen/Bates, for my own indulgence. But it's only noticeable if you squint. ;)

**Disclaimer: **_Downton Abbey_ would turn into a rabid appreciation of Anna/Bates and Robert/Cora, because they're less appreciated than Mary/Matthew and Sybil/Branson...

* * *

_Tea Trays and Flowers_

It is a shock to the system to find that he misses Anna's presence at the dinner table much more acutely than he ever thought possible. He has been in the house for a year now and he has grown accustomed to the way that Anna always sits by his side with a smile lighting her face, always willing to engage him in conversation and listen to his musings on this and that. She prompts him gently, obviously interested in what he has to say, and he finds himself feeling more comfortable in her presence than in anyone else's, this young woman with bright blue eyes and a pretty smile and beautiful, delicate features which belie her true strength. He stops himself from thinking about the former three things, however. He is not a young, free man who can entertain such fancies.

Nevertheless, he is more disappointed than he should be when Mrs. Hughes tells him that Anna has been sent to bed with a cold after he politely enquires as to her whereabouts at tea. All throughout the snatched few minutes of rest, he finds himself wishing that she was there to share an anecdote with him, or else to tease him gently with that subtle mischief that she always has about her. In those minutes of quick tea drinking, he comes to dread spending an entire dinner without her by his side, engaging in a conversation that automatically is much less enjoyable because she is not a part of it.

All afternoon he spends his time lost in thought, wondering how she is feeling, if she is sleeping away her ailment, or perhaps lying snuggled beneath her sheets with a book.

He has to stop himself there. He cannot take his thoughts any further.

At dinner, he enquires after Anna again, but Mrs. Hughes is reluctant to say any more than she already has, aware that a housemaid's ailments shouldn't matter to a valet. John is aware of this too. He hopes that he sounds like a friend enquiring after a friend.

Even without any extra information, he cannot stop his mind from conjuring up endless days with Anna ill. The thought of spending whole days without Anna's gentle presence at the dinner table makes his heart sink, though it shouldn't. After all, she is only a friend.

After dinner, he is sitting in the servants' hall waiting for Lord Grantham to ring for his services when Gwen clatters into the room, looking happy and excited. She is wearing her Sunday best, clutching her hat in hand. She stops short at the sight of him, still dressed in his valet uniform, a box of collars in front of him.

"Aren't…aren't you ready to go, Mr. Bates?" she asks him uncertainly, and he internally curses as he remembers agreeing to go to the fair with her.

"I'm afraid I can't, Gwen," he says, offering her his apologetic smile. "I found these in his lordship's cupboard earlier, and if I don't get them sorted tonight then they won't be ready to go out in the missionary box." It's a lie, something he told himself that he would never do again, but he feels like it's the best policy this time: it is true that the missionary box will be going out later in the week; he could always have left the collar sorting until tomorrow night, but he does not want to hurt Gwen's feelings by admitting that the only reason he agreed to going to the fair in the first place was because it would mean that he could spend more time with Anna out of the working environment. It is a ridiculous notion that he shouldn't even be entertaining, but he cannot stop it.

"Oh, well, never mind then," she says, looking a little crestfallen.

"I'm sorry, Gwen. Truly."

She shrugs, trying to make light of it all. "Don't be sorry, Mr. Bates. I've been a housemaid long enough to know that work can spring up at the most inopportune times. William, Thomas and Daisy are going down to the fair as well, so I'll just tag along with them. Have a nice evening. I'll bring something back for you."

"You don't have to do that," he protests, but she waves it away with a smile before disappearing through the door.

John sighs to himself. Gwen is a nice girl, but she isn't Anna. No one is like Anna. The thought is a dangerous one.

Ten minutes later, he is joined at the table by an irate Miss O'Brien, who slams her mending down on the table, casts him a glowering look as though it is all his fault that she has had to stay behind while the others get a night off, and begins to sew furiously, muttering occasionally under her breath about how selfish Anna is for daring to be ill. It is a relief when a cheerful Mr. Branson joins them at the table, relaxed and confident despite it only being his second day of service in Lord Grantham's house. The two of them chat amicably while O'Brien sits by in sullen silence. John finds Mr. Branson to be a charming fellow, easily likeable and a very interesting person. Obviously not being able to stand the fact that Branson is so well settled, O'Brien makes a snide comment about how he shouldn't have eaten dinner with them earlier. John is quick to defend him, but the chauffeur is unperturbed by O'Brien's manner, looking up from his newspaper to tell her that he is waiting to take old Lady Grantham home. O'Brien snaps back again, but he ignores her in favour of enquiring about what John is doing. He tells him, and Branson quips that he can think of other things that would help the poor better. John laughs, but it is quickly silenced by a sour look from O'Brien. As her gaze moves from him, a sudden idea flares up in his mind. He has a split-second to weigh up his options. O'Brien might know more about Anna's condition than Mrs. Hughes would tell him. Although he is loath to ask O'Brien anything, he feels like getting to know more about how Anna is faring is a worthy cause.

Trying to seem casual by looking down at the collar in his hands, as though he is inspecting its worth, he says, "I thought Anna might have come down for her dinner."

The lady's maid's tone is bitter. "And show she's ready to start work again? Not a chance."

She makes Anna sound like someone who is not kind hearted and generous, always willing to push herself to the limits to do a good job for her employers. John keeps his comments to himself.

"She's still in bed then?" he says instead, hoping his tone is nonchalant enough so that O'Brien's suspicion is not roused.

"She is. While I'm sat here sewing like a cursed princess in a fairy tale and not down at the fair with the others." O'Brien sounds more acrimonious than ever. John thinks it's best to leave the conversation there before the acerbic woman can be put into an even worse mood. Branson shoots her a slightly disbelieving look, quickly returning to his paper. Evidently he has figured out that she is not a woman to cross.

Silence reigns. John's mind whirls. As she hasn't been since the early morning, Anna hasn't eaten, in all likelihood, since breakfast. She is bound to be starving. He remembers her gesture to him on the day that he had thought that he had to leave Lord Grantham's service, all those months ago. The kindness of her bringing him a tray of food up because he hadn't been able to face eating with those who had not wanted him to share the house. The genuine sorrow in her expression as she'd told him that she was sorry he was leaving. She had been his only ally in the house, and he'd known then that, no matter what, he would always treasure her friendship. In the months since then she has proved to be a sturdy confidante, someone he has been able to share some of his less sordid secrets with and, in turn, someone who has shared her grievances with him because she trusts him so implicitly. Would he be dancing with the devil if he returned the gesture that she had extended to him all those months before?

It has nothing to do with an eagerness to see her for himself, he tells himself firmly. It's just something that anyone would do, a gesture from one friend to another.

That makes his mind up for him.

He deems that ten minutes is an acceptable amount of time since the end of the conversation with O'Brien for him to push himself to his feet.

"I'm going to make myself a cup of tea," he tells them airily, hoping they can't read the lies in his face. "Does anyone want one?" He hopes they will say no, but it's as though O'Brien has her interfering sensors turned up to the maximum.

"You can do one for me," she says rudely, and he sighs inwardly.

"Very well," he says, then grabs his stick and limps out of the room. He can probably buy himself twenty minutes, at the most. He will have to be quick.

In the kitchen, he reaches for a tray. And then he pauses, palms sweating. What should be included on a tray for someone who is just a friend? He doesn't want Anna to get any ideas. He has an inkling that she might have a fancy for him. He doesn't believe that it's anything to worry about (a few secret smiles here and there and an eagerness to share conversation does not necessarily equate to undying love), but it would still be wise to keep her at bay.

And yet he cannot help himself.

He fills a glass with milk from the icebox. It looks thick and rich and he takes the tiniest sip. It is delicious against his throat, and he shivers at the thought of her drinking from the exact same place that he did. He finds a fresh bread roll in Mrs. Patmore's baking area and wraps it lovingly in a napkin. He adds a pound of butter to a plate and puts it on the tray, then worries about it being too much. What if she laughs at him for being stupid enough to give her so much butter? He leaves it there, ultimately, convinced that Anna is not unkind enough to laugh no matter what, and then lifts up the remains of today's dinner, covered with a lid. It is cold, but he shoves it in the oven and tentatively turns a few nobs, hoping that no one discovers him fiddling with Mrs. Patmore's prized possession when he has no clue what he's doing. After a few minutes he dares to take a look and breathes a sigh of relief; the plate is now warm. When he tests the food, he finds the same. He thinks that he should re-train to be a cooking assistant as he places the plate on the tray. He'd probably be more adept than Daisy.

He stands back to survey his work. It looks perfect.

Or almost.

There is just one thing missing.

He puzzles it over for a moment, tapping his fingers nervously against his trousers. There is more food than Anna could wish for, she has something much nicer than plain water to drink…so what is it?

And then he realises.

_I love flowers,_ she'd told him one day as they'd hung back on the way back from church, stealing a few moments alone without the others piping up in their conversation. _Especially flowers in spring. They always make me feel better._

_Flowers_ are missing. John wants the tray to be as perfect as possible. He knows that the only way that this can be achieved is through the flowers. Flowers make Anna feel better, after all, and he wants her to recover as fast as possible. That's his only motive for including them.

Or at least that's what he tells himself.

He leaves the tray on the side, hoping that Branson or O'Brien won't come in looking for him, and limps out into the courtyard. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forces himself to move as quickly as possible as he lumbers towards the garden. There are all manner of beautiful flowers there on display to choose from. He stops short, eyes scanning the selection.

He could take her a rose. But no. That would appear too much like a romantic gesture. It is not a gesture sent by a friend for a friend. He dismisses the daffodils as too bright, the chrysanthemums as too gaudy.

And then his eyes fall on the pretty collection of white and purple flowers huddled together. He isn't sure what they are, but he can see at once that they are perfect; the purple give the white a burst of life and the white's innocence matches Anna's personality perfectly.

He stoops down and pulls a few free, then returns quickly to the house. Laying them gently on the tray, he seizes a pretty little glass vase from one of the cupboards and fills it with water. Then, being careful not to snap the stems with his big, clumsy fingers, he gently sets the flowers into the water. Tenderly arranging the vase on the tray so that it takes centre stage, he casts one last critical eye over his offering.

_Now_ it is perfect.

Before his courage can fail him, he hooks his cane over his arm and takes the tray in hand. Wincing as the pain in his knee increases without the aid of his cane, he hobbles slowly over to the staircase. It will be torture reaching the servants' rooms in the attics, but he is determined to make it, for her. As one friend to another.

At long last he reaches the door that separates the males' rooms from the females'. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, trying his best to ignore the throbbing in his knee and wishing that he could wipe the sweat from his brow, and then he calls for her. She answers after a few moments; he hears her tread softly into the corridor. She sounds nervous when he asks her to open the door, but he encourages her to with soft words and she cannot resist the temptation.

She almost takes his breath away when he sees her. She is simply stunning. Her nose is red and her eyes are running. Her long blonde hair is braided rather messily; several strands have broken free. And yet he is certain that there isn't a more beautiful sight on earth than this one. He offers her the tray and she takes it, her eyes shining with emotion. Her smile is enough to light up the world. For a moment they simply stare at each other. He is mesmerised by the gentle contours of her face, by her cheeks that are tinged a pale pink. He focuses on his face, careful to not let his eyes slip any lower than the shawl that she has wrapped around her shoulders. He daren't let his eyes trace the womanly lines that would be revealed to him under her thin white nightgown.

They probably would have stayed like that for the rest of the evening, simply staring at each other as though hypnotised, but the sound of a door opening not very far away breaks the spell that has been cast over them. They both start and Anna backs away slowly, beginning to close the door. They smile at each other a final time. He waits until he hears the lock click securely back into place, then begins to make his way back downstairs, sighing in relief now that he can use his cane to help him again.

He wonders, boyishly, if she is enjoying his offering. He hopes she is. The thought of her being disappointed in his gesture makes his heart bleed in his chest. He wants to please her. He wants her to be happy. He wants to make her happy. Seeing the smile that had lit up her face as he'd offered her the tray…it had made him feel like Goliath. Samson. Undefeatable with her faith in him. Able to tackle anything with her by his side.

He stops short. His palms begin to sweat. He shakes his head, as though that will dispel the thoughts.

_No. No, this can't be. You swore that you wouldn't, John Bates. You swore that she'd be nothing but a friend to you. She deserves more than you could ever offer her._

Because it's at that point that he realises the whole undeniable truth, the force of it hitting him like a train at full speed, as though it's a magic trick that has been saved until last for the grand finale: he, John Bates, is in love. Anna Smith is not just a friend to him. And he feels like he is much more than a friend to her. It's a storm that has been brewing between them for weeks now. She flirts with him gently, he knows, but he has never discouraged it. In fact, he has always welcomed it, buoyed by the knowledge that he can feel like a young man again in her company.

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't allow her to fall in love with him. He had never banked on his own heart betraying his resolve in such a defiant manner.

But there is nothing he can do about it now. A disloyal part of him is glad about that.

_My mum always said that you should never deny your heart because it always leads to regrets._ It is Anna's voice that he hears in his head, wise beyond her years. He closes his eyes against the memory of her, leaning slightly into him as they sat together outside, her gaze turned up to the stars as though she felt more comfortable divulging such an intimate piece of information about herself –about her true feelings – that way.

Can he trust himself in that same way? Can he accept what is in his heart, as long as he promises to keep his distance and let Anna have the life that she deserves? Can he live with loving her from a distance while she meets someone who is more suitable for her, marries him, has his children?

It is a grim prospect. But it is better than lying to himself. He loves Anna Smith. Nothing he can do will change that now.

Sighing to himself, John returns to the servants' hall. The others will be back soon, he thinks, and so he will need to be prepared to lock up for the night. Mr. Branson is no longer in his seat when John enters, no doubt called away to take the Dowager Countess home. Unfortunately, Miss O'Brien is still there, looking as forbidding as ever.

"You took your bloody time," she snaps as he limps around to his side of the table. "Where did you go to make this tea? China?"

A feeling of mortification swells up in his chest at the sound of her interrogation. In all of his concentration at making sure Anna's tray was perfect and his realisation of his love for her, he had forgotten what he had told O'Brien in the first place. As though realising this at the same time, O'Brien's scowl deepens.

"Where the bleedin' hell is this tea, then?" she demands, eyeing his jacket as though he is hiding a teapot in there.

"I…I forgot," he admits lamely, wincing at his inability to even make up a contrived the excuse.

O'Brien stares at him incredulously. "You went in the kitchen specifically to make tea! How can you have forgotten? Does your war wound affect your brain as well as your knee?"

He has no reply to that.

O'Brien stands. "Well, looks like I'll have to get me bleedin' own. Honestly, sometimes I think that Thomas and I are the only two with brains in this whole house!" She leaves the table, continuing to mutter about how incompetent he is as a valet and as a man. John can't bring himself to care. Especially not now.

* * *

Two days later, when Anna is well enough to begin work again, she catches him in his lordship's dressing room sorting out his cufflinks.

"Anna?" he greets her politely with a smile, trying to ignore the way that his heart begins to pound in his chest as she reciprocates the action shyly. "Is anything wrong?"

She shakes her head, moves into the room, twisting her hands together. "No, nothing's wrong. I just want to thank you. For the tray. No one's ever done anything as lovely as that for me before."

_Then they're all fools,_ he wants to say, but keeps the thought to himself. "It was my pleasure, Anna."

She's in front of him now. "The flowers were beautiful. They really cheered me up."

"I'm glad." His mouth is dry.

She takes his hand cautiously within hers, squeezes his fingers tenderly. "I really want to show you how much I appreciate what you did for me, but I don't think I have the means to do so."

"Really, it's nothing."

She seems to be leaning closer. There isn't enough air in the room.

And then her lips meet his cheek. It's feather-light, hesitant, impossibly warm. He feels himself flushing from top to toe at the contact.

It's over in a couple of seconds. She pulls away quickly, her own face pink. It suits her countenance perfectly.

"Just a token of my appreciation," she tells him quietly, stumblingly, then backs out of the room before he can fully recover.

The skin of his cheek tingles. He stands there in Lord Grantham's dressing room grinning like a lovesick schoolboy.

He knows he will never recover from Anna Smith's charms.

* * *

**A/N:** Now I'm nostalgic for the simplicity of series one...

Drop me a line if you feel so inclined. :)


End file.
